


Elderberry, strawberry and blackberry

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fëanor and three of his sons out in the countryside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elderberry, strawberry and blackberry

“Is it still far?” Carnistir grumpily asks when they haven't been climbing for ten minutes.

Fëanáro looks up at him and smiles instead of replying. 

Carnistir can't help feeling a little guilty and looks away, then frowns. He directs the reproachful glare at Tyelcormo's back, but Tyelcormo, who is running ahead of them, is unfortunately completely oblivious to it.

It had been his idea to climb the hill on their way home, when they could have simply followed the straight road that cuts through the farmers' and shepherds' fields and be home in less than half an hour (Carnistir likes that road; there are elder trees all along it, and he is fascinated by their dark red almost black clusters of berries). Therefore it is his fault if Carnistir has ended up riding a donkey with Curufinwë on the steep path.

Curufinwë leans his full weight (not that he weighs much) against him. He has exhausted himself chasing butterflies for a good part of the afternoon in one of the many meadows that open among the forests, and he is a little drowsy. Their father, moved by Tyelcormo's wheedling, would have carried him all the way up, so Carnistir, not seeing any good reason why they had to go to all that trouble to fulfill Tyelcormo's wish, protested that he was tired too and couldn't climb any hill. The hill would always be there at any rate, they could go back to it anytime.

The matter had seemed settled to his satisfaction, when their father saw a donkey in a farmer's yard, and asked to borrow it.

The farmer was a little puzzled at first.

The area is an isolated one, situated at the foot of the Pelóri several miles north of Tirion, and far from any big settlement. Only a handful of very old elves, all Cuiviénen born, live there. Travellers, apart from traders, are unheard of, and the fact that the High King's own son has built a house in the region and visits frequently is still the subject of fervid talk among the sparse inhabitants.

Tyelcormo, predictably, used his sugary smile on the farmer, and she gave them the donkey, assuring Fëanáro that it was a trusty, gentle animal.

The donkey is large, coal black but with a patch of white on its muzzle, and has big intelligent eyes. Tyelcormo immediately took a liking to it, in addition to beaming cheerfully in anticipation and excitement. Carnistir had tried to protest again, but his father put him on the donkey's back, and urged him to watch out for Curufinwë, effectively mollifying him. 

And so they had veered off the main road to climb the narrow uphill path. The recent rains have hollowed out deep furrows in the middle of it, but the donkey is evidently used to difficult terrain and doesn't falter, even when the path becomes steeper and there are boulders to step over. At one point it is almost entirely concealed by bramble bushes and tall ferns, but Fëanáro remembers it, and has no problem following it.

They arrive to the top when Laurelin's rays have begun to slant, and drape over the looming mountains at their back like a veil of gold.

Fëanáro halts the donkey, and helps Curufinwë and Carnistir off it. Tyelcormo pats and coos the animal, who brays in acknowledgement and trots off towards an enticing patch of grass.

“See, that's the lake we went to yesterday,” Fëanáro says as he leads his sons towards a spot where the ground is mostly rocky and very few trees grow, so that a nearly uninterrupted view on the gently sloping land opens before them. 

“The strawberry lake?” Curufinwë asks while stretching his arms up towards his father to be picked up.

Fëanáro lifts him and settles him on his left arm.

“Yes, that one.” It's a very small lake, lying low among the hills. The few people who live on its shores have found a way to grow strawberries almost the whole year round, and the particular climate of the place makes them the most delicious in the whole of Valinor. 

“Can we eat more of the small pies with the little strawberries on them?” Curufinwë has tasted them for the first time during that trip, and liked them a lot. He has eaten the last of the large batch they bought and took home not two hours before.

“Of course.” Fëanáro decides to wake up early the next day and go and get some for breakfast. “And, over there,” he points to the right, “that's a bigger lake, and it's where we're going tomorrow. It's also safe to swim in it, so we will try that too.”

“Is that the sea over there?” Carnistir asks, pointing at the horizon.

“No, that's a much much bigger lake.” 

“It looks like the sea,” Carnistir insists. He has only heard descriptions of the sea so far, and the seemingly boundless patch of dark blue that occupies the whole extent of the horizon matches those descriptions perfectly.

“No, Moryo, that's not the sea. The sea is on the other side of the Pelóri, isn't it?”

Carnistir blushes at his blunder, and Tyelcormo's loud giggle deepens his embarrassment. Fëanáro hands Curufinwë to Tyelcormo and picks him up instead.

“My, my, you're growing too big for this.”

“I'm not,” Carnistir promptly denies. He hates the idea that one day he will no longer experience the comfort of being held like that by his father. It's unfair.

“Yes, you are.” Fëanáro gently pinches his nose and kisses a rosy cheek. “I'm quite sure you too are going to be taller than me.”

Carnistir scrunches his face, feeling contrary again. “I hope I won't.”

“If you do, you can carry me,” suggests Fëanáro.

“You won't become as tall as me, anyway,” Tyelcormo taunts and clutches Curufinwë closer to himself. 

Carnistir fumes. “I'm going to become taller than Nelyo and carry Father everywhere!”

Before Tyelcormo can retort, a metallic croaking call sounds above their heads.

“What bird is that?” asks Fëanáro.

“A hooded crow!” Curufinwë enthusiastically replies. He likes birds the most among animals and is constantly demanding information from Tyelcormo, who is all too happy to share his rapidly growing knowledge on the subject with his inquisitive youngest brother.

“No. They sound similar, but that's a jay. They are light brown in colour, with a light blue stripe on the wings, and a black and white tail.”

“I want to see one!” Curufinwë wriggles in Tyelcormo's arms.

“We can sit down and try to...but not for too long, we promised to be home before the mixing.” 

Fëanáro looks around and spots a large, flat boulder under a young oak tree. Tyelcormo puts Curufinwë down, and Curufinwë scuttles to sit on his father's legs.

Carnistir sits down at his father's left side. “Are there any owls here?”

“Owls are everywhere.”

“Can we see owls too?”

“Well, most of them only come out at night...we could set out after the mixing one day. But you must be very still, and quiet, or else they will be disturbed and fly away.” Both boys nod solemnly – Curufinwë is observant by nature; Carnistir isn't normally patient, but when he sets his mind to something he can muster more concentration than most of the adults Fëanáro knows.

Tyelcormo, who prefers to explore the hilltop (it's a little different from how he remembers it), wanders off among the trees. He comes back after a while with a three-pointed shoot. “Dad, look at this.”

Fëanáro takes the pale green plant and furrows his brow perplexedly. “Clematis should have bloomed and flowered by this time of year. Where have you found it?”

“Over there where the trees are thicker. It's very damp, and colder than here.”

“Well, that might explain it.”

“Shall I pick it?”

“If you wish.” 

“I will!” Tyelcormo takes the wicker basket they used to carry their lunch and beverages and disappears again.

Carnistir peers suspiciously at his retreating older brother. “Why is Tyelcormo picking that plant?”

“To eat, obviously.”

Carnistir snatches the shoot out of his father's hand, bites it, and immediately sputters. “It's bitter!”

Fëanáro takes it back and eats it. “Not so much.”

“I don't want it,” Carnistir declares. Tyelcormo must have picked it only to annoy him more. “I won't eat them.”

“Oh, but you don't have to eat them like this.” Fëanáro stretches the upturned palm of his left hand out for Carnistir to cover it with his own smaller one. “I can mix them in scrambled eggs, or cook rice with them...or we can boil them and stuff them into bread, with lots of cheese.” 

Carnistir has a hearty predilection for cheese, and the mention of it is usually enough to warm him even to dishes he would otherwise refuse. He isn't so easily persuaded this time, so Fëanáro adds one more treat. 

“If you eat them, I'll also bake a lemon and custard pie for you.”

The offer has the desired effect. “...I will try.”

“Can I have some crumbly biscuits if I eat them too?”

Fëanáro kisses the top of Curufinwë's head. “Yes.”

“Moryo, come over here!” Tyelcormo's voice sounds from somewhere among the trees at their right.

“Why?” Carnistir shouts back, hesitant.

“There are some ripe blackberries.”

Fëanáro nods encouragingly to Carnistir, who stands up and scampers off a little bit too fast for someone who is supposedly tired out. 

Fëanáro remains sitting for a while longer, but the jay refuses to show itself and Curufinwë is almost falling asleep. Finally, he stands up with his youngest son in his arms, fetches the donkey, and looks for the others.

He finds Tyelcormo helping Carnistir clean his hands, stickily stained by the juice of the blackberries he has eaten to his heart's content. Their sweetness has made him forget both the bitterness of the clematis and his opposition to the unanticipated detour.

“Happy?” Tyelcormo asks once he is finished. Carnistir mumbles a 'thank you' and hugs his older brother.

“If you're tired,” Fëanáro knows Tyelcormo doesn't like to admit it when he is, “I'll carry Curvo -”

“I'm rested now, I can walk,” Carnistir puts in. It's the closest he'll ever come to admitting that he was never tired to begin with, and Tyelcormo accepts it with a smile. He retrieves the basket and passes it to his father, taking the donkey's bridle instead. Fëanáro takes Carnistir's hand in his free one, and they are ready to go back home.

**Author's Note:**

> Curufin Caranthir and Celegorm are roughly the equivalents of 7, 10 and 15 year olds respectively.
> 
> Clematis is [this plant](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clematis_vitalba). My idea of plants in Valinor is that there were cycles during which certain plants grew and others did not, and variations due to the closeness/distance from the Trees and other local conditions. 
> 
> And yes, Fëanor cooks for his sons, which is supported by the following quote in HoME X: "Among the Noldor [...] the cooking and preparation of other food [i.e. apart from lembas] is generally a task and pleasure of men." (and I don't think the Fëanorians took servants with them when travelling all over Valinor, so they had to be able to look after themselves).


End file.
